I pull my backpack into my lap and wrap my arms around it as I watch the crew break down their equipment.
“After all,” I say, distantly, “since when did Hollywood ever let anybody down?”
* * *
—
Judging from the inebriated roar that greets me when I step into the lobby, Grace and Suzy aren’t the only people worried about the fate of the film. I clap my hands over my ears and stare in astonishment at the overcrowded bar.
How did they all get here so fast?
I see Daisuke and Kim and Carmen the makeup artist; I see Chuck and Tim and Mindy and both Bobs; I see Kim and Eileen and Valentina. And they’re all doing their level best to spend their per diems as God and Oliver Reed intended.
Even the hotel staff seems to be getting into the spirit of things. Over at reception, Wade’s finishing off a pint of beer. Next to him, Francie sips a whiskey.
End-of-day drinking is par for the course, but this gathering has all the manic intensity of a pre-apocalypse bender. One look at these people, and you know: There’s going to be unprotected sex in this hotel tonight.
Honestly, it would probably be better for me if Gavin follows through for once and actually quits. But I can’t say that to the people here. For many of them, this film is their big break. Their first speaking role, their first union job, their first studio credit. Life is going to be different for them after this. But if the movie’s canceled, it’s back to square one. Their old apartment. Their old car. Their old life. They’ll have to tell all their friends and family and the people they were trying to sleep with that no, actually, it didn’t work out, they haven’t actually made it, but it’s okay, really, that’s just the way it goes, the way things work, the way the cookie crumbles, don’t worry—there will be another chance!
No matter that they know, deep down, there probably won’t be.
That’s what the stakes are in this business, if you really care about it. Not quite life or death, but not far off, either. We’re like Damocles, but we have only ourselves to blame: This particular banquet has an open seating plan.
I try not to think too much about what would have happened to me if I hadn’t made it—if I hadn’t met Amy—if I’d had to go back to Illinois and find a job in the real world. If I even could have found a job in the real world. Movies are all I’m good at. All I’ve ever been good at. With my résumé, I probably would’ve ended up back at the Carmike Beverly 18. It’s an AMC now. Digital only. The only thing they need people for is the popcorn.
That’s what I’ll have to look forward to if I screw up this job badly enough. Flavacol and butter-flavored topping.
I trudge over to the elevator. I hit the button for my floor and tuck myself into the far corner of the car, chewing on the inside of my lip, tapping my toes. Just as the doors are closing, the cat lopes in, easy as you please. She rubs her cheek against my jeans.
“You need a name,” I tell her after a moment. “I’m not going to call you ‘Cat.’ I hate that movie.”
An inquisitive, birdlike noise.
I look down my nose at her. “It didn’t make sense that Audrey and George would end up together. And if the ending’s rotten, you can’t trust anything that came before.”
She nudges her way between my calves and starts circling my ankles.
Amy always wanted a pet, but I argued that we didn’t have the time, money, or sufficient cleaning subroutines. But maybe I was wrong. It could be nice to have a little creature like this to take care of. I bet I could train her to pee in Josh’s shoes.
When we reach my floor, she follows, padding silently alongside me.
I’m fumbling for my room key, just about to round the corner, when I hear Anjali’s voice.
“Come on, Liza, I know you’re in there.”
I stop short. Anjali has one hand fisted at her hip, the other braced against Liza’s door. At her feet is another tray piled high with plates and napkins.
I take a hasty step back, out of view.
There’s a pause, then Anjali’s pounding on the door with the flat of her hand. “I’m not leaving until you come out and talk to me. I can’t do anything if you don’t talk to me.”
I peek around the corner. I’m so close to my room—it’s only, what, twenty feet away? Maybe if I’m very quiet and stay very close to the wall and move very, very slowly.
“If you don’t open this door, Liza, I’m telling TMZ what happened to your chinchilla. Now let me in.”
I take a step. Another.
Incredibly slowly. Imperceptibly slowly.
The cat zips past me and over to Anjali, chirping out a greeting.
Turncoat.
Anjali looks over, her face tight, her lovely thick eyebrows drawn together. She blinks. “What are you doing here?”
I point at my door. “Just going to my room.”
“You haven’t seen Liza by any chance, have you?”
“Is something wrong?”
Her mouth falls open, and a laugh gurgles up out of her. “Oh, no, everything’s perfect. Just peachy.”
I take a step toward my door, then stop. I don’t think Anjali likes me very much, but she’s clearly upset, and the piece of my brain that’s convinced I’m the root cause of all human suffering is screaming at me to do something to make her feel better.
“Gavin will come back,” I say. “He quits all the time—he probably thinks it’s part of his process.”
Her lips twist into a rictus grin. “Process can go fuck itself.”
Well, I tried.
I unlock my door, letting the cat in ahead of me. I drop my bag on the bed and toe off my shoes. I clear the throw pillows off the loveseat and stretch out along its length. The cat settles her hindquarters on my thighs and begins kneading my stomach, purring, her claws catching and snapping at the cotton of my shirt.
I nestle my head into the cushion and stare up at the ceiling. Somehow, I feel like I know less about this movie than I did when I arrived. I can’t make heads or tails of anything; it’s all elision and insinuation. And maybe Tony’s right, maybe an answer means more if you figure it out yourself. But I really wouldn’t mind a solid hint or two.
That cat’s rumbling so loudly it takes me a moment to realize my phone’s ringing.
I lift my hips and dig my phone out of my back pocket. “This is Marissa.”
“Hi, it’s Paul Collins, returning your call.”
My eyelids flutter in relief. Finally.
“Yes, Paul, thank you so much for calling me back, I was just—”
“I can’t tell you anything.”
I shift the cat to the opposite end of the loveseat and sit up, swinging my feet to the floor. “I’m sorry?”
“I’m not allowed to talk to you. Legally, I mean.”
“So you called me to tell me that?”
“Yes.” A pause. “We can talk about other things, just not the movie.”
I squeeze the bridge of my nose. “This is strictly between us, I promise. I’m not interested in secrets or gossip or drama or anything like that. I’m a very boring person who is just trying to do her job—and I was hoping you could help me.”
“You should also know that I’m recording this conversation.”
I stare at the phone in disbelief. “It’s a pretty simple question.”
“This is Tony Rees we’re talking about. There are no simple questions.”
“He’s a man, not a philosophy midterm.”
Paul laughs darkly. “Try telling him that.”
My fingernails press into my palm. “Look, I’m not trying to be difficult. I would just really appreciate it if you could tell me why he fired you so I can make sure it doesn’t happen to me.”
“I wish I could, but their lawyers will annihilate me. Dragon fire, salted earth, the whole nine yards.�
��
I slump back against the couch cushions. “Isn’t there anything you can tell me? I’m desperate for information here.”
He takes so long to respond I begin to worry he’s disconnected.
Then he sighs. “Just—go look at the film, okay? Everything you need, it’s all there. You just have to look for it.”
“Th—”
The line goes dead.
“—at’s annoyingly cryptic,” I finish.
I roll onto my back and kick the air in frustration. God. Everything in this whole horrible world would be eight million times easier if we just said what we meant and meant what we said and sure, we would probably have to sacrifice drama and comedy and irony and suspense, but honestly, the time we saved might be worth it.
I push myself up on my elbows. The cat is perched on the arm of the loveseat, licking her front paw and smoothing it over her head.
“What do you think I should do I now?” I ask her.
She closes her eyes and scratches her left ear.
“Yeah. I like that better than my idea, too.”
I sit up and reach for my sneakers. What was that line of bullshit Nell fed that executive again? That there’s no one better at watching footage and knowing exactly what the director’s trying to say?
I suppose I might as well find out if that’s true.
* * *
—
Assuming I can find the footage, that is.
I’m standing on the hotel’s lower level, green patterned carpeting stretching in all four directions, and I think I’m supposed to turn left, right, left.
But maybe it’s a right, left, right.
I knew I was destined to get lost down here.
Taking a different elevator, that was my first mistake. But I didn’t want to have to walk through the lobby—what if I had to talk to someone?—so I used the service elevator back by the ice machine instead, figuring it would take me to more or less the same place.
Which it did.
Which is the problem.
It’s impossible to distinguish anything down here, and without a sign or PA to guide me, I can’t tell which way I’m headed—or which way I’ve been.
There’s only one thing for it, I guess.
I retie my ponytail, say a quick eeny-meeny-miny-moe, and turn decisively to the left.
Five minutes later, I come to a door at the end of a hallway, and I want to cheer. This has to be it: The doors are bronze and glass, with diamond-shaped panes. The handles—yes, I remember those very clearly. Crescent moons. This is definitely right.
I push through and step directly into a thick, pungent steam.
This is definitely wrong.
I clamp a hand over my nose, but it’s too late, I’ve already smelled it: the fusty twang of sandalwood and, beneath that, a cloying, powdery rose. Eau de Grandmother’s Undercarriage.
I’m in the spa.
I wave my hand in front of my face to clear the air even though I know it’s pointless. Between my eyebrows, I can already feel the telltale pinch of an oncoming headache.
Since the damage has been done, I move tentatively into the center of the room. There, I find a small, circular fountain brimming with rose petals, lit by half a dozen floating tea candles. On the lip of the basin is a red lighter and a saucer with two stubbed-out cigarettes. A few feet away, a gleam of silver: an ice bucket whose contents have long since melted. An open champagne bottle lies next to it, abandoned on the floor.
I turn in a slow circle. Around the perimeter of the room are a series of alcoves, each furnished with teak lounge chairs, a stack of thick white towels, red velvet curtains on a scrolled bronze rod. The first five alcoves are empty, but the sixth, if the flicker of candlelight coming from beneath the curtain is any indication, is very much in use.
Balls.
I don’t panic—not exactly. This wouldn’t be the first time I’ve interrupted a couple in flagrante. On a shoot, just about everyone hooks up—particularly on the weekends, particularly near the pool—but as long as everyone’s there by choice and no one tries to get me to join in, it doesn’t bother me.
That said, I don’t exactly want to barge in on someone I’ve never met.
Or, worse, someone I have met.
I back toward the entrance, minding my feet, trying not to do the obvious thing and knock over the ice bucket.
A low, masculine murmur is followed by what I fear very much is a giggle.
I pick up my pace.
The velvet curtain ripples, and a hand curls around its leading edge.
I’m closer to one of the alcoves than I am to the door, so I dart around a pillar seconds before the curtain sweeps open. I slap a hand over my eyes a moment too late: Our lead actress is apparently modest enough to want to wear a robe, but not enough to tie it closed.
The soles of her feet make a sucking sound as she makes her way across the wet tile floor. I press myself back against the wall. I don’t think she’ll be able to see me, but I can’t risk it. I’m committed now. Once you go full French farce, there’s no going back. Those are the rules. I have to hide from the naked people until they leave or I die, whichever comes first.
“Shit.” Liza says. “We’re out of champagne.”
There’s another low murmur in response.
“We’re out of that, too,” she says.
This time I can’t hear anything at all, but he must say something, because she muffles a snort.
“Yes,” she says, “I suppose that’s a sustainable resource.”
At this the curtain is thrown all the way open, its metal rings scraping along the rod, and I’ll admit, part of me wants to look, to see who’s in there with her, but I’ve already invaded her privacy enough as it is.
A moment later the curtain closes again, and I’m pretty sure I don’t want to stick around to hear what happens next. I creep around the pillar, sidestep the length of the room, and slip out the door.
I have to pause in the hallway to clear my lungs. I’ve often envisioned hell as a series of scented candles; that room could have been the ninth circle.
I whisk a bead of moisture off my eyebrow and consider my options. I suspect most any other person would take the past twenty minutes as a sign and just call it a night. Go back to their room. Crack open a bottle of Stoli. Draw a bubble bath. Watch whatever prestige television the internet has deemed necessary today.
But I don’t drink. Bubble bath gives me eczema. And you know what? It’s time someone took a stand against all this good TV.
I’m going to find my way back to the theater if it kills me.
I march back down the hallway, retracing my steps.
Right, left, right—left, right.
Right.
The moment I unlock the door to the theater, I feel ten times calmer. Maybe this is why Paul never left the projection room.
Maybe this is the only place he felt like he belonged, too.
I lock the door behind me, giddy now at the prospect of having the place to myself. I shove my keys in a backpack pocket and hurry through the curtained door and down the back hall. At the base of the spiral stairs, I pause. I’m all alone, and no one’s around to hear me—and there’s no acoustic tiling in this part of the hall. And if I’m guessing correctly, each step will produce a very satisfying clang if I put enough weight on it.
I jump my way up the first steps to the opening of Beethoven’s Fifth.
On the fourth note, the staircase shudders violently. I fling out my arms to catch my balance, tangling my left hand in the lightbulb’s pull cord. I give it a sharp tug to shake myself free, and the bulb promptly sputters out.
This night just keeps getting better and better.
I glance back down the hall—or what I think is the hall, anyway. It’s so dark now even my eyes have troubl
e making sense of it. I think my best bet is just to keep going. There’s a task lamp up in the projection room. Maybe it has an extension cord. I grab on to the railing with both hands as I climb the remaining stairs.
Inside the projection room it’s even darker, but I’m too impatient to wait for my eyes to adjust, so I pull out my phone. I just need a little light to help me find my way to the desk—
And then there’s a hand wrapping around my wrist and wrenching it forward, a hand that’s not my own, a hand that’s strong and strange and cruel, and it’s twisting my arm around and—
Jesus Christ that hurts.
The phone’s ripped out of my grasp. The hand settles on my lower back for a split second before shoving me roughly forward. I make a quick calculation and heave my body to the right, altering my trajectory just enough to keep my chin from cracking against the Autowind. My arm catches the edge of the aluminum platter as I fall; it punches through my skin, chiseling out a strip of flesh.
I hit the floor hard, the impact knocking my teeth together, the noise they make like a walnut cracking open, and for a moment, I can’t move, stunned as much by pain as indecision. I’ve never been in a situation like this before. I don’t have a script. I don’t have a plan. Why don’t I have a plan? What should I do? Amy would know what to do. Amy, what do I do?
But it isn’t Amy who gives me the answer.
It’s Uma.
Uma Thurman stares down at her foot. She narrows her eyes. “Wiggle your big toe.”
Translation: Move your ass, Marissa.
I come up on my knees and use my good arm to drag myself over to the far side of the projector.
For some reason the intruder has retreated to the corner of the room, over by the editing bay. Are they trying to steal something? Break something? Whatever they’re doing, I shouldn’t waste time thinking about it.
I crouch down and fumble with the zipper of my backpack. There must be something in here I can use as a weapon. Laptop, no. Mouse, no. Soda, headphones, battery, notepad—no, no, no, no. Come on, even Jimmy Stewart had a flash bulb. Then, at the very bottom of the bag, I find it. My only plausible option.
Pretty as a Picture Page 18